


There is something about a soldier

by a_different_equation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, How They End Up Married in Sussex, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock Roulette, Love Confessions, M/M, My Very Own Insane Wish-Fish Fullfillment - After all Moftiss had 'The Final Problem', Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Talking, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-20 16:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10666026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: Four days after John found a toy wooden soldier on his kitchen table, on a sunny Sunday morning around 10 o’clock, he and Rosie finally make their way to Baker Street. In retrospect, John will sometimes say that it has been like January 29th all over again. Another start, a second chance, and a new path because good things sometimes really come to those who wait.Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have waited what feels like a lifetime.





	There is something about a soldier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSherlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSherlocked/gifts).



> A/N (2017): Moftiss had their insane wish-fullfilment aka season 4/’The Final Problem'; 'There is something about a soldier' is mine. It's a sort-of fix-it as well.
> 
> All I ever wanted?
> 
> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in 221b, sitting in their chairs and talk all night about anything and everything. To come out to each other, to confess their love, and share a kiss. And then another kiss and another and another. 
> 
> Some hints at bees and raising Rosie together, setting up 221C as an office, and how sex doesn't change a thing, and how they end up as an old-married couple in Sussex. 
> 
> A soft epilogue. That's it. That's 'There is something about a soldier'.
> 
> Edit (2018): This OS is now polished, fixed & edited by the amazing 221bloodnun who generously offered to beta read "There's something about a soldier". My story might only be a little tale but it means a lot to me that - at last - it reads as smoothly as I always intended.

Sherlock and John cherish Sundays these days.

At the age of 41, Sherlock Holmes has discovered the joy of consulting work with regular work hours ( _mostly_ ) and work-free weekends ( _always_ ).

It is not that Sherlock does not love to solve the puzzles anymore. It is only that Sherlock has decided that it’s not only a case of the work being all that matters. Sherlock Holmes is still Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, but just like any other consultant, he now has office hours, and while he still does not care much for credit (not that he cared for it in the first place), he insists on payment most times now. Money he will use for their lovely cottage in Sussex, his own beehives, and Rosie’s education in the future.

The first Sunday, when Sherlock refused to look for cases on the blog, John had been baffled ( _to say the least_ ), but pleased ( _and a bit worried_ ).

In his newly gained free time, Sherlock runs all the experiments as he used to do when they first met. That has not changed.

John is not one hundred percent certain yet, but it appears that Sherlock might be working on a second edition of ‘ _The Science of Deduction_ ’.

Over the last couple of months, Sherlock has spent more and more time at Barts, where he asked politely for body parts, collecting data, and asking about Molly’s opinion. His bedroom is so full with papers and notes these days, that John assumes that Sherlock uses the sofa to sleep.

Recently, there has been the talk about setting 221C up as an extra laboratory.

Since Sherlock’s decision, Greg has never appeared again on the doorstep of 221B on the weekends. Unless, of course, he was summoned by Mrs. Hudson’s cooking or by the promise of a James Bond marathon. Such movie nights leave John and Greg always smug, because for once, they are the geniuses.

One evening they had even asked Mrs. Hudson to babysit Rosie, and the three men had gone out for a pint together. At least, that had been the plan, until it turned out that Sherlock was still a lightweight and John was a soppy dad, so Greg brought them home in under two hours. Mrs. Hudson had been laughing so loud that Rosie had woken up and started to cry.

The reason behind the change?

At the age of 41, Sherlock Holmes has decided that as much as every story needs an old-fashioned villain, it needs a happy ending too.

However, when you intend to have a happy ending, you need time to write it. If you want a future, and you cannot change the past, then your only option is to shape the present.

This seems to be Sherlock Holmes’ newest motto, and John Watson as his loyal companion follows his lead. After all, when you are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, adventure finds you at the most unlikely places.

Alternatively, one might say, after crime show and action thriller, after family feud and Shakespearean drama, it might be time for another element: for love.

And it all starts with a soldier.

 

OOOOOOO

 

The soldier, John remembers when both men sit in their respective chairs in 221B.

It is a Sunday evening in July. The heat of the day is beginning to subside and there is a gentle breeze through the open windows. Rosie is taking a nap in her cot that miraculously turned up one day in John's former bedroom. Mrs. Hudson brought up tea and biscuits ("But, just this once"). It is a normal day, which turns out soon to be anything but.

“Sherlock, have you, by any chance, left a toy soldier made of wood at the kitchen? I saw it when I came home last week. I do not want to pry or anything, maybe it is not even from you, I just thought that...I gather just, when it is a gift for Rosie, I hope you do know that it is a bit not good? I mean, now, for now, not for later. It is an interesting gift, I assure you. And she will like it, love it surely, I mean, if...“

“It’s for you.”

“What?”

“The soldier is a gift for you, John. Do keep up.”

“But, Sherlock... I’m not a child.”

“Really, John? I hadn’t noticed.”

“I don’t understand. Sorry. Why do you... and why... and no, sorry, what? Sorry.”

Sherlock looks amused at John’s confused words and facial expressions. However, as John has picked up one or another word of Sherlock’s vocabulary, he ponders on and demands:

“Elaborate.”

“Elaborate?”

“Elaborate.”

“The soldier is mine. My father gave it to me as a gift on my last day of rehab.”

 

OOOOOOO

 

There is obviously a longer story hidden in Sherlock’s statement.

It is a tale about a young man, brilliant, and with a big heart. It is about a lost friend – that is Victor Trevor, in case you were wondering – and a criminal who will turn out to be Sherlock’s nemesis - that will be Jim Moriarty. It is a tale about an explosion in a chemistry lab, and being expelled from Cambridge. It is a tale about a dysfunctional family, and drugs that led the path from excitement and stimuli, to addiction and danger nights.

While John will hear parts of this tale over time, he will in the future always tell the abridged version for the public. After all, he is John Watson, and ever since ‘ _A Study in Pink_ ’, it has been his job description: to shield and to protect, with a gun and with a pen. That is the reason why people only get the bones of the tale: It was over a decade ago, at the last day of rehab, when William Sherlock Scott Holmes would become Sherlock Holmes. After all, the consulting detective, that is the bestselling story most people are interested in.

Therefore, just imagine a room in a rehabilitation facility in London.

Sherlock Holmes is in his mid-twenties, full of energy, which is – thankfully – not fabricated by morphine or cocaine but by the thrill of adventure awaiting him.

There had been the case of Carl Powers when he was a younger boy, and there had been the case with Victor Trevor when he was older. Both cases were as yet unsolved, but it gave Sherlock finally an idea how to use his brilliant mind, his unusual talent of deduction, and his tool of a mind palace. It would take Sherlock more than a decade to solve ' _The Great Game_ ': how all of this is linked, that his faith in pure logic and following his brother’s advice of “caring is not an advantage” has its limits, and his heart will be his saviour (and downfall).

However, Sherlock has not met John Watson yet.

On this day, another important, life changing day, it is not the limping soldier recently back from Afghanistan from whom he borrows a phone to text to Lestrade. No, it is not that day when the soldier came to Barts with Mike Stamford in the need of a flat mate. Instead, it is a day involving his father.

 

“Mycroft has told me that you have found a new occupation, Sherlock. That you have invented a job...”

“Consulting detective. As my always-concerned brother has informed you already: I invented the job. I will be the only one in the world. It will be brilliant.”

“But what is that suppose to mean, Sherlock?”

“I consult for the police when they are out of their depth. Which I presume will be often. Most people are idiots, after all. Maybe some private cases, only interesting ones, of course. And serial killers, oh I love those; they are always hard to find! I would love to solve a locked room mystery! Oh, it’s going to be Christmas!”

“Sherlock...”

“Anyway. Got to dash! Have to find out what happened to my rooms at Montague Street. Don’t tell me that Mummy took away the skull!”

With this Sherlock put on the Belstaff. Drug usage had made him feel cold more often, and so his brother had surprised him with a coat. Sherlock had wanted to dislike the Belstaff of course, but when he had seen it for the first time, he knew that some battles need to be lost. Now, when wearing his coat like a second skin, it feels like a fresh start, a rebirth.

“William... Sherlock.”

“What is it? Do you not see that I have more important things to do? Yes, I will call. Yes, I will try to sleep, eat, and drink more regularly. No, I do not need a babysitter. I definitely do not need Mycroft gigantic nose spying on me. I am sorry for taking drugs. I am sorry for scaring you and upsetting mummy. Etc. Etc. Etc. I said it – multiple times, in fact – I am sorry. Can I go now?”

Sherlock Holmes is already at the threshold; ready to for his first case and the thrill of the chase.

His father's quiet words summon him back for a moment:

“Just one more thing, Sherlock.” His father sets an unassuming toy figurine on the table.

Sherlock, eager to leave the facility for good, barely registers it. “What’s that supposed to be, father? A soldier, really? And an old one, even. You do not need to process my mental faculty to deduce that you purchased him in a curiosity shop in London. He is a bit older than I am. I hope you did not pay too much for it, because he is clearly damaged. The shoulder...”

Sherlock's father smiles when he listens to his son’s deduction. When Sherlock stops at last, he replies, “How did you say it, Sherlock? You see, but you do not observe: This soldier is a gift, Sherlock, for you.”

“Why would I need a soldier? It’s a child’s toy.”

“Because you are Sherlock Holmes, dear boy. When you go into battle, like you are intending to do, it will come in handy to not be alone. The streets of London are their very own kind of battlefield. Even, if it’s – as you say – only an old, damaged soldier.”

“Thank you, father. Lovely tale. However, no. I have to go.” 

On that evening in July however, more than a decade later (almost two in fact), when Sherlock Holmes tells John Watson how he first spoke the now iconic lines, had gotten his trademark coat, created his new persona, and “celebrated” it all with a new name, Sherlock includes John by asking him, “You know what I said to my father at the door, John?”

Once again, John proves to be the perfect companion, because he passes the test when the right words tumbles out of his mouth: “The Game is on?”

The world’s only consulting detective grins, when he repeats the words first uttered back then, and repeatedly, during the long years of their partnership: “The Game is on.”

OOOOOOO

“What happens then?” you may ask.

It turns out to be true, what one says about (love) stories: when you have the set up, and the essentials covered, the rest happens almost automatically.

Sometimes it takes longer, but it happens all the same.

Therefore, it is around 7 o’clock, when John says, “I am getting Rosie to Mrs. Hudson. She has hinted so often that she would love to give us a night off. It is too late to contact Molly, and I don't really want to rob my babysitter of her well-earned weekend. While I handle this, you are ordering us takeaway. Thai, if you like. Get us a bottle of wine, too, if you do not have some here.”

Because John decides for once to be brave and to take a leap of faith. After all, who - when not them - knows better than Sherlock Holmes and John Watson that the best fights are the ones in which you are not on your own, but have a partner at your side?

It has always been like that: John Watson follows Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes follows John Watson.  The same will hopefully goes for the personal battlefield.

Therefore, John Watson, always the soldier, battles on: “And then, we'll talk. No secrets anymore, Sherlock. Just you and me. Okay...?”

Sherlock’s smile is soft but tractable. “Once more unto the breach?”

John fails to imitate a true Shakespearean accent, but he grins even more while trying. They both say in unison, “The Game is Afoot.”

 

OOOOOOO

 

Not much time passes until both men sit again in their chairs by the fireplace.

All over the surfaces are now mostly emptied boxes of Thai specialties. A bottle of wine stands empty next to the sofa. When Sherlock sets down his glass on the mantelpiece, John copies the manoeuver. Both men are silently agreeing that it is time.

“So, he wasn’t really a little boy? Victor Trevor, I mean. I do not want to... no, actually, sod that, I want to know, because I remember the tale of your childhood story because I heard far too much about Redbeard and pirates and family affairs, and everything. Maybe I have no right to pry, but Sherlock, I have been with you in this institution, and you gave me this soldier, and it has to mean something, doesn’t it? So, Victor Trevor... “

“Was my best friend, my first friend and he died, so to speak. I have not solved his case yet, and I do not know if I ever will. Not because I do not have better abilities today, I know Lestrade now, after all, and Mycroft would probably help me, and the methods of forensic science improved a lot in the last decade, but I think... no, I know now that not every case has to be solved.” Sherlock fixes his eyes on an unidentified point in the room.

For a second, John thinks that he will go to his mind palace. It has taken a considerate amount of time for the consulting detective to rebuild it, but since the beginning of summer, Sherlock Holmes was the only (!) owner of the virtual 221B again. John had been concerned at the beginning; what would happen if Sherlock could not reconnect the memories or when some ‘deleted scene’ would trigger another panic attack?

John is no fool (anymore); he knows now that Sherlock has his own nightmares. First, there was the damage to the room, 221B Baker Street, the place that both men had called home. Second, there was damage to their bodies, new and old scars, and traces of bad and good life choices. Third, there was damage to their soul and brain; and John, who once returned from an actual warzone, was more than willing to trade another shoulder wound for the loss of Sherlock's mind palace.

All three parts had been rebuilt, but there were limits now, just as John’s shoulder aches when the weather changed. Therefore, John was concerned, even when he tried to be brave. After all, it was Sherlock, for whom he could shoot another man the day after meeting him, and no one will hold him back to look out for Sherlock’s magnificent brain, too.

However, when Sherlock continues his explanation about Victor, his voice is calm but full of meaning.

“I came to the conclusion that it is more important that he lived, and that I am alive, than to find out if my sister or Moriarty, or both, had to do something about it. I was the only one who thought something was amiss, after all. Maybe it was just my way of coping that he had left me. After all, Victor was a friend of mine, but not a particular trustworthy one. That he got bored with me, or the talk about my oddity became too much for him, that he only wanted my body – so to speak – and when I refused, he left me. Who knows? His father did not approve of me, our classmates made fun of us, he wanted a steady life, a respectable one with wife and children in the future. He talked about it but back then, I thought, he would change, that I could convince him, but maybe it was doomed from the start? Not all stories have a happy ending, John, as you know. If it was indeed a crime, then I think it would be an investigation by his parents after one point. No, I think it was just a love story gone wrong. The turn to drugs were my way to deal with the heartbreak; you know how unaccustomed I am with “sentiment”. However – before you get angry on my behalf – he really was my starting point for my detective career, and for this, I am grateful. It is not okay, but it is what is it is, is it not?” Sherlock gulps a big swag of the wine. It is a crisp white.

John knows that he should say something, comment, reassure or whatever, but his mind comes up blank. Of the entirety of possible outcomes, John has not expected a cover-up story over heartbreak. However, maybe it does make sense (in a Sherlock universe at least), that when only facing an intellectual challenge to turn to composing, and when it is matters of the heart to turn to drugs and to deleting things. When the solar system faces that fate, an ex-boyfriend (?) could easily follow that logic.

“So, he might be still alive, Victor Trevor, I mean? He is just dead to you – like the saying turned into reality. He is literally dead to you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, if it is for you. He is your ex, after all.”

“Right.” Sherlock took another gulp.

“You are not going to deny it?”

“What?”

“That he was... that you were... that, you know...” John is babbling and he knows it. He is in his forties, yet he is stalling like a five year-old, is probably blushing like a teenager in sex ed, and that thought is so not helping matters. _Damn it, Watson, get it together_. John continues:

“Victor Trevor is your ex.”

Sherlock fixes him with an irritated, but interested, look. His voice does not falter one bit, when he said, “Yes.”

“Good. Fine, okay. Okay. --- So, you are gay. I mean, it still stands what I said at Angelo’s. Seven years ago, can you imagine? Anyway, it is all fine. I mean, it is maybe a bit over the top to make all this out of it but knowing you, it should not really come as a surprise.

What I want to say...Sod him; really, he is a true wanker if he did not see how amazing you are. Brilliant, in fact. And yeah, he is an idiot. That is what I wanted to say. I will shut up now.”

“Yes and no. Yes, as in: Victor was an ex-boyfriend of mine, if you want to use that term loosely. I am attracted to men, which you would have realized, had you paid more attention. And no, because I am not strictly speaking, gay. And no, when your next assumption is that I am bisexual, then you are wrong again. Seriously, John, how is it that your thoughts are always so easy to read but ten times easier still when your thoughts are centered on sex? Where was I? Ah, my sexual orientation. I am demisexual.” With having said this, Sherlock get up and goes to the kitchen.

John cannot tell if it was pretense to give himself space or a time for John to ponder the spoken truth. Alternatively, if Sherlock Holmes of all people really just wants to be a good host for once, and get them a bottle of water. When Sherlock come back minutes later, he even goes so far as to pour John a glass. John is baffled, but pleasantly surprised.

It gives him the courage to pick up their talk.

“Thanks. And, I know that you do not want to talk about it further, and I am totally with you here on that..Just,... one thing, besides the, you know, it is fine and thanks for telling me-bit,... because we want a clear start. I am not gay...Do not shake your head, Sherlock, bear with me a second, mind you, thanks. This is not easy, for me, I mean. Because, of course you are bloody right, Sherlock, I think about sex, you can read my mind, and you probably saw it when you first met me, but I am not you. To talk about it, about sex I mean, is as difficult as it is for you, even for probably different reason. What I want to say is that you are right. Sort of, I guess. I am not gay, but I am not straight either. And yes, whatever you and probably the whole world thought, that I was repressing my sexuality, I was doing that. What I want to say...Noo, please, do not interrupt me, please; I have to say it once, aloud, to myself, and for you to hear. I cannot count the times Ella wanted to make me say it. Anyway, shit, this is really difficult.”

John clears his throat. He clears his throat a second time. He could have really use some drink now, something stronger than water, and probably stronger than wine, too. He is in his forties, he has a daughter, and he wants to come home. He has to let go of his youth, of his father, of his old home. John breathes out, the sound is resonating loudly in the room, and then he speaks up while trying for the steadiest voice he can muster: “I am bisexual.”

The world does not end.

Sherlock does not even make a comment. John’s instant thought is that coming out is overrated, because he does not feel that relieved. Then the tears come. Then he starts sobbing. Then there are arms, hesitant and careful, but so welcome. Warm and well-known, arms that feel like home.

 

OOOOOOO

 

It is well after 10 o’clock, when they both resume their places by the fire.

For a second, John hesitated again, wanted to call it a night, and had it not been enough for one evening?

Then he had risen to battle again: no more hiding, no more lying, no more subtext. Sherlock had sensed his inner decision, had gone to the kitchen once more, had set up the coffee machine, and had given John some privacy to collect his thoughts. Sherlock prepared the caffeine, which should hopefully bring them further through the night.

When Sherlock brings the two steaming cups out, already added with milk and sugar, John smiles: “Who would have thought that we need that one day? We are getting old, Sherlock.”

Sherlock seems to hesitate for a second and then he whispers, “That is good, John. I, for once, would have never thought that I would need coffee. When I was younger, I could stay up all night, for days on end, as you well know. When I was even younger, as you know now, I couldn't care less, if I slept or stayed up. I took drugs or would eat nothing for days. I was not foolish, I was just bored and lonely, and I did it because I thought it was the only time I could do it, because I would not get old anyway. Therefore, I am grateful for needing coffee in the evening. Do you not agree?”

“You are right, of course you are, brilliant git.” John smiles at Sherlock, openly now. He takes the cup and takes a sip. Probably, he is getting sentimental on his old days too, because he does not remember being so at ease and so aware of the particular smell of the brew before. The warmth of the coffee takes over his body, warms up first his hands and arms, then his face, and then the upper part of his body. In the end, everything is contently warm. When he finally murmurs “Thank you”, John knows that it is for much more than just coffee.

For awhile, they stay like that. From time to time, the fire creaks. They can hear the city calming down outside; the rush hour long gone but London is a city that rarely sleeps anyway. Still, the loud talk from the pavement had dimmed down, and the cars got more and more rare with every passing minute. The bus stop is a bit further down the road, just like the 24/7 Tesco Express, which means no party people or tourists hitting the city or coming back close by. John knew that he cannot really hear Rosie or Mrs. Hudson in the flat below (and he hopes that Rosie is in bed), but he tried to listen anyway.

“Mrs. Hudson is watching her favourite Sunday evening show on the telly. It is this crime show with this hideous plot but she has a crush on this one detective, the old one with the grey hairs, do not know why. When I asked her once, she got all defensive. Oh, and Rosie is in her cradle since 8 o’clock. I know, too late for your liking, and you are right, of course, sleeping routines might be good for children, but it is today. We will work on it, though.”

“You are amazing.” John should know by now that Sherlock can do that. Maybe he should be less amazed, but he still is, and he still would love to hear how he did it. What gave him away. People say that one is accustomed to things and people, but John think that they are wrong on both accounts. He feverishly hopes that he never gets accustomed to Sherlock, his deductions, his character traits, and that he continues to amaze him. So, John smiles, wide and carefree, and is brave, for once, and let a bit of his ‘sentiment’ blend in, too.

Sherlock might have been blushing in reaction. Sherlock clears his throat now and looks more at the wooden floor than anything else, when he says quietly: “Want to talk some more?”

Then Sherlock winks. And it is like the first night, the first cab ride, their first meeting. The start of everything.

Therefore, John knows his line: “Oh God, yes.”

 

OOOOOOO

 

They are both starting to giggle and in the end (which is probably less than a minute later), they are laughing, loud, a bit hysterical, and so alive. It takes some time for them to stop and even then, they are light-hearted and relaxed, all easy smiles and fond looks. Therefore, it takes not much for John to be the brave one and to ask: “Why a soldier?”

“Because, I can assume that you hopefully listened to my tale about how my dad brought the soldier to me, and I was so foolish to reject the gift and the gesture. Therefore, I can only conclude that you want to know why it ended up in my belongings after all and why, after all those years, I bestowed it upon you. Am I correct?”

“Of course you are, eloquent as ever, posh git.” However, there is only fondness in John’s voice, a slight of teasing maybe. Moreover, because they have always functioned at best when turning serious conversations into funny remarks and childlike humour, John adds, “What I want to bring across: _Do go on_.”

John misses the upper-class accent by a mile, and his voice range is far away from the deep baritone Sherlock possesses, but it lightens up the mood and that is all that matters. Because John sees the shoulders of his best friend finally dropping, and the last remaining tension his body leaving.

Sherlock is now all the man the world does not see: the human being.

He is still strikingly gorgeous, all long limbs and dark curly hair, high cheekbones and pale skin. The dressing crown, the blue one, is draped carelessly over his features.

John thinks about getting them a blanket and talks himself out of it immediately. Just because he was (and is!) the lucky one who is blessed to see Sherlock Holmes like this: the man instead of the myth, it remained true: Sherlock is not a child, not a misled youth, not an angry young man; he might have been all those incarnations, but he was not part of John’s life back then.

They are here and now.

And here and now, Sherlock did (and does) not need babying, neither to be set on a pedestal, Sherlock does not treat him like damaged good or like an imbecile (even if he might act like one from time to time).

They learned their lesson: They treat each other equally, as two men (in love). Therefore, John gives the man he loves a smile and listens to his tale.

“I did not go back and apologize to my father, if that is what you are expecting, John. I did not realize how wrong I was after almost a decade later. I still have to apologize, twice in fact, because I might have nicked the soldier when we visited them at Christmas. He knows that I got it, probably. He is the least smart of our family, but he is not a complete idiot. Surprisingly, he knows me the best of the three children, but that might be because I am the least intelligent of us. Why I stole it? First, it is not technically stealing, because it is technically mine; I just accepted my gift 10 years later. Second, I do not know. No, that is a lie and I am done with hiding. I stole it because it was the horrible Christmas I knew that you would go back with Mary, and I had to shoot Magnusson to keep her secret safe, because I had made a vow which would lead to my imminent death, as I knew the outcome would have been a suicide mission.

I am Sherlock Holmes; I know when I am being played. I might have not remembered my sister but you have met her; I never would have stood a chance. Mary, Moriarty, her, and Magnusson on top, it was a losing game. As we all know, and yes, you knew it first: I am not a real high-functionating sociopath. I am terrified of dying, too. And as you well know, thanks to our lovely encounter with Culverton Smith, I am terribly human. Therefore, when I waited for my fate and my dad was talking about childhood tales, showing you all embarrassing photos and all the food and festive cheer that were just a staging, just playing pretend, I remembered my father’s words. That my life is a warzone, my personal battlefield, and that I might need a soldier by my side.

Back then, I had dismissed the idea, now I realized that I would have done anything to have you at my side again. All would have been so much easier with you at my side. And because I could not have you, I took second best, hence the wooden toy soldier. As a reminder – just like my father intended back then – that I do not have to be alone, and if I am alone, that at least I know what I am fighting for. And maybe, he even wanted to tell me that I should be more of a soldier myself, because he is my father and he knew me best: he knew that I am terribly human. And that I thought that I would be ready for the world, the battle, and all the darkness but that I am not made of wood. And he even maybe feared that I would become a toy in someone else’s game, and they would play with me like one again. He was right on all accounts. I was wrong, I was so terrible wrong, about so many things, John.”

There are tears glittering in Sherlock’s eyes. John is in an emotional turmoil himself. He does not really know how to react: comfort him, probably, but how? Hug him, as they did the last time? A hug seems not enough anymore. John is feeling lost, but he knows that Sherlock is as lost as he is. Sherlock's entire monologue has been almost rushed and spit out, full of emotion and wavering voices. It is a clear signal of his inner state. His posture is not relaxed anymore; strung like a bowstring, all tensed and ready to bolt.

Still, in all the years of knowing him, Sherlock never reminded him more of a soldier. Because Sherlock Holmes is in a state of distress but he is not hiding. Behind words or actions, he sits there, alerted for sure, maybe expecting a blow, but he waits. There is no running off, no shooting the wall with a gun, or doing mad experiments instead, but there are no harsh words either, or big speeches full of melodrama and Shakespearean attitude. This is not a drama queen or the consulting detective, it is not the myth or the fraud, and it is the man.

This made it so much easier for John to reach out and to take Sherlock’s hand.

 

OOOOOOO

 

In the end, it is simple.

John has already Sherlock’s hand in his. It is just one smooth motion, slowly, not to startle them and to disturb the silence, and then John is pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s wrist. Right to Sherlock's pulse point.

There is no hand snatched away, only a shudder that goes through Sherlock’s body, and then the soft exhalation of breath. It might have been a sound, maybe even a whisper of a word, but John cannot be sure. Of what he is sure, there are hesitant hands now; long and slender fingers, with calluses from playing the violin and some scars from experiments and life experience, well-known and all-new at once, that are brushing through his hair.

John’s hair is shorter now, not the hairstyle that had screamed midlife crisis from the rooftops. There are almost completely grey now; he does not try to hide his age anymore. Those days are over.

Sherlock's hands move over his neck and over his shoulders, a bit skittish and unsure at the beginning, overwhelmed and/or inexperienced, John cannot tell. He should ask, maybe, he maybe should even know it, but John senses that this is not the time.

This is Sherlock. He has to trust him. Simple as that.

In the end, they find themselves in the same position like the last time: After the horrible confrontation with Culverton Smith, and the even more horrible encounter in the morgue and later at the hospital bed, the talk about being human.

That it is what it is.

There is a poem that has similar lines. It is about love, that it might be unreasonable, that it might be unwise, that there is are so many obstacles and possible downsides and potential hurt (and danger, in their case), but it is what it is. Love conquers it all; and John does not think about this particular phrase in any other context than this:

Sherlock in his arms.

 

And this could be the end,

the end of a long evening and an even longer day

and an almost never-ending story of two men.

 

There had been the tale of the man behind the myth,

there had been the soldier who finally could come home,

there had been the second chance and now, close to midnight, it is the choice to take it.

 

Maybe Sherlock is brave to make the first step and John follows.

Maybe John is brave to make the first step and Sherlock who follows.

And maybe they both are simply brave and follow their heart at the end.

 

OOOOOOO

 

In the end, there is a kiss.

 

One kiss for ‘’Afghanistan or Iraq’,

one kiss for ‘the game is on’,

one kiss for ‘Hungry?’

and one for ‘starving’.

One kiss for ‘Alone is what protects me’,

and one kiss for ‘Caring is not an advantage’.

One kiss for ‘I don’t have friends. I only have one’.

One kiss for ‘Keep your eyes fixed on me’,

one kiss for ‘You machine!’,

one kiss for ‘Goodbye, John’ and one for ‘Sherlock!’

 

Kiss after kiss after kiss for all the time away,

kiss after kiss after kiss for all the time lost,

kiss after kiss after kiss

because they can.

 

Because they can.

Because there was, is, and always will be two of them: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

 

And maybe it did not really start with a soldier.

Maybe it was not “Afghanistan or Iraq”, but instead every “amazing” and “brilliant” and “fantastic”.

Maybe it was killing a cabbie the day after meeting Sherlock or maybe pretending to kill yourself to save John.

Maybe it was a boom or maybe it was a whimper.

The details were and never will be important.

 

That it happened, however, was elementary.

 

OOOOOOO

 

There was no sex that night. And there was no sex in the morning, too, because it was Monday and Rosie woke them before they could even think about something else. John kisses Sherlock on his forehead though, before he left in direction of his old bedroom.

Then there was John’s work at the surgery, and Sherlock’s at the Yard. Instead of spending the evening like maybe ‘normal’ new couples do, they spent it chasing down an alley, and it was far too late again for doing something ‘substantial’. The “Hungry” – “Starving” was no interlude for something more; there was a flicker, but the rumble of their bellies reminded them; “transport, my arse”. John had smirked, and there was at least a teasing touch to that particular body area.

Then there was the moving back to Baker Street that had to be arranged. They hired Mycroft – they could ask for favours for at least the next decade after the whole Eurus debacle – but still, when John wanted to keep Mycroft’s nose out of more private matter (not that it would help much but the thought is what counted), then he had to supervise and delegate.

The reason why Sherlock was not available to help turned out to be a surprise: while John brought himself and his daughter home, his partner finally set up 221 C.

The new quarters turned out to not only be Sherlock’s workspace, but when he proudly presented the new rooms to John, his partner did not take long to detect his own desk with a new laptop. After all, what is a consulting detective without his blogger? Here, they could discuss theories about serial killers and criminal masterminds (even not the caliber like Moriarty, thank god), without introducing Rosie too early in their particular line of work. Here, they could interview clients (and Sherlock already used ‘we’ because he knows that John will quit the surgery soon), while protecting their private life. Here, they could fuck as loud as they please, because no one will hear them.

There are many firsts for both of them because they are doing it together. It is not always love-making, compliments, and running smoothly. There is the incident when Greg walks in on them, because he wanted to get their statement after all, and got more than a signature. There is the chair that crashes, because John is heavier and when Sherlock formulates this, it did not end well. Or, only when the outcome was to sleep separately for the night. There are the rude inquiries from imbeciles about who tops and who bottoms; comments on the blog that made Sherlock so furious that John had to propose angry sex even he was not to blame. And was this not the how angry sex normally works? and then John shutting him up effectively and seriously.

 

Normal is boring anyway.

 

They kiss and fuck, and fuck and kiss, and then Sherlock proposes after half a year and John’s first reaction might be something along the line “What took you so long?” That might be the story all along and Sherlock’s answer, besides the “You have to answer, John. Does this mean yes or...” is rather fitting. “I was an idiot”. And John answers because they are getting married (and the date will be the 29th of January, of course): “But you’re mine.”

There is Rosie, who grows up, and her fathers are trying it with ‘Nature versus Nurture’ and mostly it works out well. There is Mycroft who turns out to be human, when finally he meets with Greg Lestrade privately. There are still the regular visits to Eurus, and John tries the same with Harry, and both agree that they prefer going to Sherlock’s parents even Sherlock would never admit it aloud. Molly meets Hopkins, and maybe it will work out. Anderson is Anderson, just as Mrs. Hudson is Mrs. Hudson, only far better (“Nana!”).

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are still in Baker Street until Rosie goes to university. Then, they pack it all up and they retire to Sussex.

However, that is another story. One, another writer might tell one day. This, after all, was only the tale about two men in love.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos are love.
> 
> Follow me on a-different-equation.tumblr.com


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